


Defenders of the Land

by zonerunner



Category: Sanders Sides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 12:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13007742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zonerunner/pseuds/zonerunner
Summary: Based off a prompt I received on Tumblr. Contains angst. Enjoy!





	1. Battle Cries

Logan surveyed the vast army before him. Some were on foot, others on horseback. All of them gripped their swords tightly in their hands. Three thousand warriors, a mass of people stretching back as far as the eye could see, stared expectantly at him. There were medics, too, around a hundred, out of sight in the trees behind Logan’s army. Logan felt the familiar, bittersweet mixture of emotions that always accompanied leading his troops into battle; this time, however, it was even stronger than usual - in the seven years since the war began, he’d never led an army this large. On one hand, rallying so many people to fight for the remnants of their shattered world was a euphoria like no other. On the other hand, though, an intense ache clawed at Logan’s chest as he realised that many of the people before him would not survive to see the next day. They’d die valiantly, swords swinging, battle cries on their lips. But they’d die nonetheless. It was an awful tragedy, made even worse by the sheer magnitude of the destruction of the past years.

 

Seven years ago, forces from across the sea came to claim what they believed was rightfully theirs - the kingdom in which Logan lived, claiming that the inhabitants of the kingdom were in the way of the land, which they wanted for themselves. They had killed the king, most of his advisors, and many civilians. Logan, a mere commoner before the war, had somehow become the leader of the resistance army; it was a heavy burden, but not one he regretted taking on. Supported by his boyfriends, who had all been lucky enough to survive the past seven years, he had risen to the circumstance, becoming the strong leader he knew the survivors needed.

 

And so, after seven years of fighting, running, hiding, rebelling, it had all come to one battle. Not the final battle of the war, not by a long shot, but most definitely a defining one. Both sides boasted their biggest armies yet - for an important cause - and the looks on the invaders’ faces were every bit as angry as those on the faces of Logan’s army.

 

“Alright, listen to me,” Logan commanded, shouting so that those further away could hear him. He gripped the reins of his horse tightly, to ground himself.“Today may seem like just another battle in this war, but we all know that it is much more than that. We all know this battle is important. If we win today, we will claim back miles and miles of land that once belonged to us. It’s not the whole kingdom, but it is something.

 

“Some of you have fought before. Others are new. Whoever you are, wherever you are from, none of that matters. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been into battle a thousand times, or once. What matters is that we fight for what is right. What matters is that we fight to get back what is ours!”

 

Logan paused as cheers erupted from the crowd.

 

“I know what you’re all thinking. You’re thinking that you might die today. I know because I have thought that at the beginning of every one of the countless battles I have fought in this war. And you’re right. Some of you will not make it out of here alive. But if you die today, than you will die a valiant death. You will die for your cause, for what you believe in - the most noble way to die. And those who do make it out alive will carry your memory with them. Whether you live or die today, you will be remembered as a hero. Each and every one of you.”

 

While he’d been speaking, his voice had grown solemn, but he brought the strong, inspirational tone back to his words as he continued.

 

“Seven years we have lived in the shadow of these invaders. We’ve spent too long running, being overpowered. We have fought against them. Thousands of innocent people have been killed, and for what? These people think they have the right to our homes, to our lives. Well, they’re wrong. Too long we have lived in the shadow of the invaders! Today, we are defenders of the land! Today, we decide the future of this war!”

 

The army before him cheered even louder this time, and Logan found himself filled with the high of the moment. An infectious energy coursed through his veins, and he felt as though he were floating on air. He let the sensation surround him - better to feel excited than let the fear and sadness at the back of his mind overwhelm him.

 

Logan turned around, looking at the opposing army. For a single second, a shadow of uncertainty whispered at the back of his mind. Could they really do this? Had he trained his army well enough? The invaders’ forces seemed so extensive.

 

Feeling a familiar hand on his arm, he turned to see Virgil - personally his boyfriend but officially his second in command - looking at him encouragingly, the soft glow of comfort in his warm, cognac brown eyes.

 

“Hey. It’ll be okay, Logan. You’ve got this. We can win this today. The invaders took our land, and everyone’s angry. That will fuel them today. Anger, as well as everything you’ve taught them, will get us through today. Yes, there will be casualties, fatalities, but ultimately, we will come out of this battle on top. Trust me.”

 

It seemed that Virgil had read his mind. The man had a knack for that, Logan thought as he responded with the faintest of smiles. Then, face set with determination, he told himself that there was no more time to think, and certainly no time for doubt. The time for thinking had ended early in the morning, when the sun had risen and the army had started the journey to the battlefield. Now it was time to fight.

 

Turning back around, Logan raised his voice and addressed the masses. “Alright, prepare yourselves! We attack on my word!”

 

Logan scanned the front lines of the army, looking for two familiar faces. After a moment, he located Roman, three lines from the front, looking majestic astride a dapple grey horse, sword in hand, toned muscles showing even underneath his armour. Roman smiled when he saw Logan looking, and Logan couldn’t help but smile back. Then he looked for Patton, and found him seconds later, in the midst of the other archers. Patton had his bow drawn ready, pointing the arrow high into the sky, so that, when it was released, it would fly through the air and make contact with a member of the opposing army. The rain of arrows when the battle begun would be a spectacular sight, Logan thought, were it not for the death it caused.

 

For a mere split second, Logan paused, the moment before the beginning of the battle seeming to stretch out around him. A single thought crossed his mind; he thought of the fatalities to come, of just how many people would fall, never to get back up. He knew that, after the battle was done, he, Virgil, Patton, and Roman would lead the funeral procession for the lost warriors, a task they had taken on countless times, but one that never became any easier. He knew that, later that night, he would lie awake, thinking once again of all the losses this war had brought.

 

He knew he had to push his emotions aside.

 

Taking a deep breath, he sat up straighter on his horse, unsheathing his sword, looking at the army facing them. He focused on the anger within himself - anger at the invaders, for destroying and even ending so many innocent lives - and brought it to the forefront of his mind. Virgil had been right - anger could fuel a person more than almost anything else.

 

This was it.

 

“Attack!”


	2. Battle Wounds

As Logan shouted out the single word, he spurred his horse forward. Behind him, the battle cries of his army erupted as they surged forward just behind him, galloping toward their opponents, who also began to move quickly towards them. A rain of arrows blotted out the sun as the archers fired their bows, and for the briefest of moments, all Logan felt was the wind in his hair as he rushed forward. Then the two armies collided, and all hell broke loose.

 

The sound of metal clanging against metal filled the air, and within seconds, the pained screams of dying warriors could be heard. Out of the corner of his eye, Logan saw movement, something rushing towards him, and instinctively, he swung his sword upwards, blocking the blow he expecting to come. It did come, and, letting the instincts learned in seven years of war take him over, he quickly and expertly fought his attacker, managing to stab them through the chest. He didn’t look them in the face. It was harder to fight if the image of the person’s face was burned into your mind. The guilt would only be worse in the aftermath of the battle.

 

Barely a single second passed after Logan’s attacker had fallen than another person rode up to him from behind. In the cacophony of sounds, Logan’s only signal that someone was there was, again, the movement just barely inside his field of vision. He was alert, on his guard. A flurry of movements, a sword through the attacker’s stomach. It was all moving too quickly to properly make sense of. Such was the nature of battle, but there was no time to dwell on how quickly things were moving.

 

Movement. Swords. Metal on metal. Screams of pain. Screams of aggression. Shouts for help. The awful sound of swords through skin. The battlefield was covered in blood, the metallic scent almost more prominent in Logan’s consciousness than the screams. Everything was a blur. Logan didn’t know how many people he fought. How many people he killed. At one point, he was wounded in his left upper arm, but the adrenaline of the fight drowned out some of the pain. It hurt, but he ignored it. He had more important things to focus on.

 

Time seemed to become blurred, unclear. The battle could have lasted hours or minutes. Logically, Logan knew that it must have been at least an hour, but when he looked back at the battle, he couldn’t tell. Nevertheless, eventually the fighting began to die down, and something unexpected happened - the enemy stopped attacking. They were retreating. A few seconds of observation told Logan that the opponents had lost too many warriors to keep on fighting.

 

As the rest of Logan’s army began to realise what was happening, shouts of triumph began to sound, slowly and not many at first, but then more, exhausted, but still there. Minutes later, the enemy was gone, and the adrenaline of the battle began to wear off, leaving Logan to feel the full effects of the fight. He was exhausted, and his arm was more badly injured than he’d thought, along with a few other injuries he hadn’t paid much attention to before. His horse was hurt too, blood colouring its leg. He dismounted, not wanting to cause the animal any more pain than it was already in, and surveyed the scene around him.

 

Bodies covered the ground, a blanket of the dead and dying. Warriors and animals alike were staring blankly at nothing, or letting out weak, quiet calls for help or moans of pain, too weak to move and knowing they were dying, but not wanting to believe it. Blood stained the brown earth and the little of the grass that had not been crushed under the feet of the horses. It was a terrible yet familiar sight, but no matter how many battles he had fought, the aftermath never became any easier to bear.

 

Slowly, Logan began to walk, surveying the bodies, his chest tightening as he thought of the lives torn away, and the families who would receive the news within a week. He looked at every face, into every pair of open eyes, to make sure no warrior was forgotten in death; a part of him, however, looked for another reason - to make sure that the corpses were not those of the people he loved. It was slightly selfish, to let emotions have any sort of influence when he was the leader of something much bigger than just him, but he was human. And besides, in a time of war and hatred, emotion was one of the most valuable things to have.

 

Logan’s thoughts were interrupted by a young man, who could have been no older than twenty-two, running up to him, carrying bandages in his hand.

 

“My liege! You are hurt, allow me to attend to your wounds!” The man reached him, slightly out of breath.

 

“I will be okay,” Logan replied. “It looks worse than it is. And don’t call me ‘liege’, I am no one’s superior.” Realising his face and posture were still hard, tense from the fight, he relaxed. Then a thought crossed his mind, causing his breath to catch in his throat for a moment. If this man was a medic, perhaps he would know where Virgil, Patton and Roman were.  _ And if they were alive, _ a voice whispered in the back of Logan’s head.

 

“Are you a medic?” He asked the man.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Do you, by any chance, know the whereabouts of Virgil Moti, Roman Tewagi and Patton Kesiti?”

 

The man paused for a second, thinking. “I saw Roman not five minutes ago, sir. He’s in the trees, helping the medics.”

 

Logan nodded. “Thank you.”

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me - or someone else - to tend to your wounds, sir?”

 

“No, I’ll be okay. If you don’t mind, though, could you take care of my horse?”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

With a nod, Logan set off toward the trees, glad he knew where Roman was. Perhaps Roman would know about the whereabouts of the others. Though Logan was reluctant to, he and Virgil needed to organise a mass burial for the dead. How many had they lost today? It had to be at least a thousand; the mere thought of such a great loss made Logan’s chest tighten with grief.

 

Suddenly, a voice sounded from somewhere to Logan’s left, a weak, quiet groan.

 

“Logan…”

 

Looking toward the source of the noise, Logan could see nothing at first. Then the voice said his name again, seemingly coming from the ground. He walked forward a few steps, then his eyes landed on the source of the sound. His heart stopped in his chest, his eyes widening, and it was all he could do not to shout out.

 

There, on the ground, lay Virgil, blood seeping through his armour, staining his clothes and his skin. His eyes were filled with pain, and he held a hand to his stomach, which was where the blood was coming from. Numb shock enveloped Logan as he realised that the hardships of the battle were not over yet. He’d thought it was over. He’d thought the men he loved would be okay. But here lay Virgil, on the ground, and though he tried to deny it, Logan knew that Virgil didn’t have much time left.

 

Breaking out of his shock, Logan ran over to the man on the ground, dropping to his knees, trying to keep his breathing steady.

 

“Virgil! Oh, god. No, no, no…” Despite his years of experience, Logan found himself at a loss for what to do.

 

Virgil took Logan’s hand, the simple movement seeming to take so much effort on the dying man’s part. “Logan… I’m not going to-”

 

“No.” Logan cut Virgil’s quiet voice short, speaking over him. “You’re going to be okay. Virgil, you’re not going to die, you can’t die.” Though he tried to keep calm, fear and sadness laced Logan’s words.

 

Virgil opened his mouth to respond, but Logan shook his head, denying the man the chance to make anything that was happening more concrete by saying the words out loud. Logan turned his head toward the battlefield, where a few warriors were collecting bodies. “Somebody call a medic!” Logan shouted, a hint of panic in his voice.

 

“Logan, it’s no use.” Virgil’s voice was quiet, but firm. “I’m not going to make it.” His breath was becoming shorter, his grip on Logan’s hand loosening, then tightening, as he fought to stay conscious for as long as he could, though his eyes were becoming unfocused.

 

“No, no…” Logan felt his eyes become hot. Virgil could not die. The two of them had grown up together, side by side. They’d been through so much together. Virgil could not die. He didn’t deserve to die. “You’re going to make it, Virgil, just stay awake.”

 

Virgil looked into Logan’s eyes, pleadingly, lovingly. “Logan, don’t do this to yourself. Don’t tell yourself I’ll survive.” He paused, each word taking effort as blood continued to flow out of him, staining the ground below a dark red. “Listen to me, okay? You’ll live without me. I know it will be hard, but you have Roman and Patton. You won’t be alone.”

 

Logan shook his head, his vision blurred with tears. “No, please, don’t say that. You’re going to be okay. God damn it, you’re going to be okay!”

 

“Virgil!” A voice shouted behind the two of them, and Logan turned to see Patton running towards them, panic in his eyes. “Oh god, no!”

 

Logan tightened his grip on Virgil’s hand as Patton reached them, falling to his knees as Logan had. The hurt in his face sent another wave of grief crashing over Logan.

 

Virgil’s eyes were becoming more and more vacant, and Logan knew that they had only seconds left.

 

“Virgil, please…” Though he tried to stay composed, he couldn’t. Not when Virgil lay dying. A tear fell down his face. “Stay with me. Come on, Virgil. You can’t die. We were going to win this war together, remember? All four of us were - are - going to be there when we finally defeat the invaders.” He was desperate, clinging to hope.

 

Virgil smiled sadly, the sorrowful expression barely there. “Win the war for me, okay? One day, you’re going to be there and you’ll have won.” His voice was barely more than a whisper now.

 

“Virgil…” Tears were falling down Patton’s cheeks. “Don’t go. Just stay with us a little bit longer. We can still help you.”

 

Virgil shook his head. “Patton, it’s no use. I’m dying.”

 

Logan took a deep breath, trying to fend off the deep, aching sadness which clawed at him.

 

“Hey.” Virgil squeezed his hand ever so slightly, the barely-there pressure all he could manage to comfort Logan. He struggled to speak, his eyelids falling slightly but not closing.

 

“No, no, no. Stay awake, Virgil. Stay awake, damn it!” Panic threatened to engulf Logan.

 

“I love you,” Virgil breathed. “All three of you. I love you so much…”

 

With a final sigh, Virgil closed his eyes, and his grip on Logan’s hand loosened completely. Logan only held Virgil’s hand tighter.

 

“No!” A voice shouted out. Logan thought it might be his own. He couldn’t tell. The world seemed to be going black around him, a million emotions flashing through his mind. Shock, denial, grief, anger at the world.

 

Logan leaned over Virgil’s body, resting his forehead on his chest. How many times had Logan lain in bed with his head on Virgil’s chest, staring at the ceiling, or the stars, feeling the steady rise and fall of Virgil’s chest as he breathed in and out, in and out, alive? Now Virgil’s chest did not move. He was completely and utterly still.

 

Fighting to keep his tears back, Logan told himself that he was supposed to lead this army. He needed to be strong. How could he do that if he was thinking of one person’s death? It was no use, though. Nothing else mattered. Who cared about the army, or the war? After seven years of fear and grief, of watching thousands of innocent people die, Logan had finally reached his breaking point.

 

He was vaguely aware of two people touching him, trying to move him away from Virgil’s body, but he only tightened his grip. No one was going to take Virgil from him. Maybe he told them to go away. Maybe he shouted at them. It didn’t matter. Everything was blurred. The only certain thing was that Virgil was dead. The tears he had been trying to hold back finally fell from his eyes, leaving tracks on his cheeks. After seven years of not crying for the dead, he couldn’t take it anymore.

 

And so it was that Logan’s already broken world fell apart.


End file.
